100 books like New Daughters of Africa

I find the notion of the “unknown” writer quite problematic.

Most of the time, at least somebody has, in fact, heard of the writer. So by whom is this writer unknown, and for what reasons has their reputation been erased?

The South African writer Miriam Tlali – the first South African woman writer to publish a book in English - is a case in point.

Tlali’s novel Muriel at Metropolitan (about an office worker in apartheid Johannesburg) was banned when it was published in 1975 for its critical portrayal of white South Africans.

Tlali was subsequently ignored by her literary (almost entirely male) peers, dismissed as offering “reportage” rather than “art”. Yet since 2017, Tlali’s work has been celebrated.

The question of whether a writer is “known” or “unknown” is complex with many layers to consider, including the prejudices of racism and sexism. 

This study of West African writers who used pseudonyms has prompted me to think about the importance of anonymity for female writers throughout the ages.

Newell looks at Ghanaian authors of the early twentieth century who used a range of pseudonyms, often for quite playful and experimental reasons.

Some of these writers were, of course, women, and they found that a pseudonym gave them increased respectability. But the pseudonym could be a double-edged sword.

A pen name was a useful cloak of anonymity allowing a woman to write.

But it also means that the true identities of these female writers are hard to discern. In other words, women writers’ frequent use of the pseudonym has rendered them both visible and invisible. 

Editor-in-chief of VICE magazine, Tsjeng is also editor of the “Forgotten Women” series (other titles include “The Scientists”, “The Leaders”, and “The Artists”).

I like this one because I’ve actually struggled to find books that explicitly focus on unknown female writers. I suspect this is partly because these writers are often unknown because they didn’t physically publish much if any work (though not through lack of trying).

It’s hard to document women writers who left little paper trail behind them. I find Tsjeng’s decision to profile “forgotten women” across a range of fields inspiring and provocative.

Although I wish she would have included more African women in her collections, including The Writers. Maybe Regina Twala will make it into a subsequent edition! 

I love the way in which this fascinating group biography of the female partners of renowned male writers brings these usually ignored figures into the limelight.

Ciuraru argues that behind the careers of many acclaimed literary figures stand the important contributions of their wives. These women offered intellectual as well as practical support. 

Many of these literary wives shelved their own creative aspirations to tend to the careers of their husbands.

But after their husbands’ deaths, some of these women found they finally had space for their own literary lives to start blossoming. 

I loved this writer’s brilliant combination of memoir, eco- and literary criticism, and an exploration of contemporary life.

Each chapter feels so personal, and yet Schaberg manages to connect these experiences to broader questions of how we live our lives, what matters, and how many things (including the health of the planet and the confidence we have in truth) are under threat–and we need to protect them simultaneously.

I imagine Schaberg is as deeply engaging teacher as he is a writer. I found this book deeply compelling and relevant. 

This is the work of a cultural sage with deep wisdom to offer on how political issues affect culture, especially literature.

It illuminated to me how significant cultural artifacts of high modernity like the short story as a phenomenon, the work of Charles Baudelaire in relation to the city, the plays of Bertolt Brecht, and the stories of Franz Kafka - that I had once been uncomfortable with because of their density - mattered and needed to be engaged with to make sense of the intellectual currents of the age.

To take my place among a culturally aware Benjamin is a writer I could not sidestep.  

This is a fascinating historical novel about Thomas Jefferson’s oldest daughter, Patsy Jefferson. Aside from learning much more about history than I ever did in high school or college, I enjoyed reading about the relationship that she had with her father. 

It’s difficult, I think, to have a relationship with a man like Jefferson who was devoted to his ideals and dreams first and to his family second. He had goals that were so immense that there was no competing with them. And yet, Patsy is completely devoted to her father and his goals. It’s a story about loving an imperfect man and making sacrifices.

It gave me a different perspective on a historical figure, but it also made me think about my own relationship with my father because I could relate to coming second or third in the life of a father you love. I know what it’s like… show more.

Auerbach wrote this book while he lived in exile in Istanbul, having fled from the Nazis. This forced him to turn his attention very closely to the original texts, classical in their reputation from the ancient through the medieval, and the early modern period. He demonstrated brilliantly the true value of thorough philological work and the great yield of close reading, profiling all of pre-modern European literature in a unique fashion. This book lives on until today.

I wasn’t in a good mental state when I read this book, so the impact was deeply felt.

The book lines out in explicit detail how human consciousness was an accident of nature designed to make us miserable. I’ve grown to feel this worldview is deeply cynical, yet when I look back on it, I remember the moments where Thomas Ligotti punctuated himself with drab humor as the highlight.

A reader could come away feeling like this book provides small light in deep darkness. The blunt dissociative experience makes any writer shudder at doing this to an audience. 

This book is not for the faint of heart. It’s got a lot of academic jargon, and it can be tough reading.

But it’s well worth the work, because it is also one of the best explanations I’ve ever seen, anywhere, of how and why widely accepted categories like “human” and “animal” come from a bigger story influenced by slavery and its aftermath. Jackson’s book also has lovely and subtle case studies that will introduce you to writers and artists you won’t forget, like the incredible paintings of Wangechi Mutu or the sensitive creativity of writer Nalo Hopkinson.